The Hanging Tree
by Merrick Mayfair
Summary: "I woke up one morning, thirty years old, with an ex-wife and a ulcer..." Harry Potter flees London, fame & his job with the Ministry of Magic to find a new life in a remote Cornish fishing village. But when a previous resident of the cottage is reluctant to move out, Harry turns to a local witch to help unravel the mystery. Caution - dark themes in later chapters.
1. Chapter 1

_Post Hogwarts AU in which Hermione (for reasons that will become apparent as the story unfolds) did not attend Hogwarts. This is primarily a romance, but there will be darker themes in the later chapters._

 _As always I am writing this purely for my own (and hopefully your) satisfaction and do not make any profit from it. Please let me know what you think._

 _Merrick x_

* * *

The estate agent's details described it as a " _character cottage, in need of some renovation._ " He really should have known better thought Harry, eyeing the holes in the roof, and the peeling wallpaper askance. But the cottage was set in an isolated spot, up on the cliffs above the tiny Cornish harbour, in a generous sized patch of garden, hedged against the prevailing wind. The flagged floored kitchen was surprisingly spacious too, and every room boasted views over either the sea, or across the overgrown garden to the hills beyond. OK so there was no electricity, or drainage, and the water supply came from a pump behind the house, but for the first time since his marriage had exploded after only three years, Harry felt as though he had come home.

It was definitely a heart over head decision, but Harry didn't think twice. He signed the contract that afternoon leaving the Gringott's goblins to handle the intricacies of magical / muggle financial transactions

Magical restoration so close to a muggle village was a definite no-no, and the state of the cottage meant that it still took six months for the basics to be sorted out. Six months in which Harry came down from London at weekends to check on progress, initially camped out like a hobo in the only dry room in the house – the kitchen. But by the time the rotten windows and timbers had been replaced, and extensive repairs carried out on the roof Harry had managed to get a generator and plumbing installed and could start making the place habitable.

The first intimation that all was not as normal as it first appeared was when they dug the trench in the garden for some pipe work. Harry was just about to go into a meeting with his immediate boss, the Head of Magical Law Enforcement when he got a phone call from the local muggle architect that was supervising the works in his absence.

"John, hello – what can I do for you."

"Um, hello Harry - I'm afraid we're going to have to reroute some of the pipe works for the sewerage by about six feet."

Harry sighed. "Oh dear – bedrock again?" Being on the clifftop the bedrock was close to the surface in places, which had caused some problems, particularly with the site of the drainage. However, the silence down the line was a little worrying. Eventually Harry checked his mobile, to make sure he hadn't lost the signal. "John?"

The architect was clearly very uncomfortable. "They've found a witch pit."

"I'm sorry?!"

"A witch pit. It's a ceremonial pit, in which offerings of the bones of small animals and things were made. I'm not sure how old this one is, but they've found ones elsewhere in Cornwall where the offerings were as recent as the seventies."

Harry frowned. Clearly John was talking about a muggle practitioner - no real witch or wizard would need to bury small animals in the garden in order to cast a spell. "Is this going to be a problem John? Are we going to have to call in an archaeologist, or a priest? Can't we just go through it."

John huffed in frustrated laughter at Harry's ignorance. "You won't find anyone around here willing to destroy a witch pit Harry. They'll happily put it back as they found it but that's all they'll do. Belief in witchcraft is still very strong in some areas of the West Country – we've even got our own "New Age" shop in the village."

 _You don't know the half of it…_ Harry shook his head, resigned. "Fine, whatever's easiest John. If I'm going to live there the last thing I want to do is alienate the locals before I even unpack my coffee machine. Can you just make sure that the location of the thing is marked. I'm going to be growing vegetables behind the cottage, and the last thing I want is to be eating cabbages fertilised by the remains of some old biddy's secret sacrifices." An unpleasant thought crossed his mind. "Shit, John – there weren't any HUMAN bones in there were there?"

John's laughter was so loud that Harry had to hold the phone away from his ear. "You're quite safe boy. Just birds and the like…."

Seeing his boss's PA glaring at him from the boardroom table, Harry took the hint, ended the call and thought no more about it.

o~o~o

By the middle of October, just as the weather and the nights were drawing in, Harry and all his worldly goods finally arrived. It took a weekend of frantic unpacking, but by the Sunday night he was officially moved in. Feeling the need to celebrate, Harry pulled on his jacket, grabbed a torch and headed off down the narrow footpath to the village.

The Golden Lion was warm and relatively quiet. Harry settled himself on a stool and ordered himself a pint.

"Haven't see you around before sir, you here on holiday?"

Harry paused, taking a deeply appreciative sip of his excellent bitter. "No, I bought the cottage up on the cliffs – I've been down for the odd weekend since - I've been up to my eyes in repairs and DIY. But I'm moved in now, even unpacked the coffee mugs and my laptop. All's right with the world."

The landlord - a tall man, around Harry's age, with cropped brown hair and the heavy build of a ugby player gone slightly to seed - raised his eyebrows. "You bought Dot's Cottage?"

Harry perused the bar food menu and wondered whether he was hungry. "Dot's Cottage? If you mean the cottage up on the clifftop that was about to fall down a few months ago..." He looked up. "Dot's cottage?"

The landlord leaned on the bar companionably. It was a quiet night and clearly he was disposed to chat. "Dot was a local witch. Her full name was Dorothea – Gerrans I think, she died a couple of hundred years ago or thereabouts."

Harry winced. "Burned at the stake?"

His new friend smiled and shook his head. "Ah, now that's the great myth my friend. They burned witches in Europe, and north of the border in Scotland. In England we burned heretics and traitors and hanged witches. I don't know much about Dot's history, but the locals have always held that there's some bad mojo around the place. I'm surprised you managed to find any builders to work on it if I'm honest. Bet they weren't local..."

Harry smiled wryly. "Bodmin. John Trevithick my architect tracked them down. I never asked why he didn't use guys from the village... I'm sorry, I didn't introduce myself. I'm Harry Potter."

The landlord shook his hand "Jack Bartholomew."

Harry studied him for a moment. The Cornish accent was subtle, but definitely there. "Are you local Jack?"

Jack shrugged. "Yes and no. I was born here. My family have run the Golden Lion for centuries. But village life didn't appeal. I moved to Bristol then to London. Worked in some of the best hotels in the country. Even when my mum and dad died I didn't come back. I put a manager in and kept working."

"What happened?"

"One day I woke up on my thirteenth day without a day off, and realised that I was sick of being perpetually on call. Sick of working 60 – 80 hours a week and never having time to spend the none too spectacular wage they were paying me. Sick of living to work I suppose. So I gave the manager notice and moved back. Now I wake up every morning, and look out at _that"_ he gestured to the view over the little harbour, and the towering Cornish cliffs – and think I'm the luckiest man alive."

Harry nodded in agreement. "Me too. I've been flogging my guts out for the ministry since I left school. I woke up one morning, thirty years old, with an ex-wife and a ulcer - realised I didn't want to do it anymore. I have - a little family money, so I sold the family home in the centre of London and found this place." In fact, the wealth of the Potter / Black families, combined with the sale of Grimauld Place, meant that he could probably buy half of the village, but that kind of information was best kept to himself

"So what are you going to do with yourself?"

Harry shrugged. "For now? Build a garden. Read the books I never had time to read. Maybe even write one... Long term, I'm not sure. Maybe find a small business around here. The one thing I'm sure of is that I want to _live_ in the village. Not just be a weekend visitor."

Jack laughed. "OK - you'll do... Now, were you planning on ordering food because the cook will be heading for home in ten minutes – it's Sunday night and this isn't London you know...?"

 _o~o~o_

That night Harry locked the cottage up – he knew the country habit of leaving doors unlocked, but London habits were hard to change, and he couldn't imagine himself ever sleeping without a locked door between him and the rest of the world. The wind off the sea was brisk but his new home felt warm and solid, and the new mattress on the big antique iron bed was blissfully comfortable. In a matter of moments he was sound asleep.

He awoke suddenly, just after 4am, his heart slamming against his ribs.

If anyone had been around to ask, he would have sworn that he had been awoken by someone whispering in his ear. Growing up at Hogwarts, Harry was no stranger to supernatural happenings, but being woken up in the middle of the night was always irritating...

"Hello! Is there someone there?" There was no response, only the wind in the trees outside the window. "Hello. If you want to talk to me – I won't hurt you..."

The only response was a subtle chill creeping over him. For a few seconds Harry's breath fogged in the cold before the temperature returned to normal.

Harry pulled the covers up around his ears and tried to go back to sleep, but his heart was still pounding and it was impossible to drop off again. "Terrific" he muttered, giving up and heading downstairs for a cup of tea. "Bought my dream home, now it seems something is determined to stop me sleeping in it."

He had left the range stove in the kitchen well stacked before he went to bed so it was the work of a few minutes to get it going again and get the kettle on. Digging the remains of a packet of custard creams out of a cupboard he settled in the rocking chair and fired up his laptop. Getting the internet out to the cottage had taken a fair degree of wrangling, and the connection wasn't the most reliable, but Harry was a 21st century wizard, and there were some things he was not prepared to do without – especially with the advent of shielded hardware that wasn't upset by a user's magical field. Harry browsed the local history sites in search of Dorothea Gerrans, but beyond a few references to her being a local witch, there didn't seem to be much there. Eventually he made a mental note to see what he could find in the village itself, before returning to bed, where he slept until late morning without any further disturbance.


	2. Chapter 2

_Wow, the response to the first chapter of this story was fantastic. Love and hugs to everyone that has followed, favourited and especially to those that have reviewed - please keep your comments coming. This is a new pairing for me, so all feedback is gratefully received._

 _This story will only run to seven or eight chapters, and is almost finished, so I promise not to disappear mid story. To all those awaiting further Tales of the Third Brother, please bear with me, it's been a difficult couple of weeks, and I've been suffering from a little stress induced writers block. If I can get my head into gear I might even get it posted tomorrow evening._

 _As always, I do not own any of JKR's characters and do not make any profit from these stories._

 _Merrick x_

* * *

Over the next few days, since the weather was still relatively mild and dry, and his ghostly visitor showed little inclination for further midnight chats, Harry decided to spend some time setting out the vegetable plot to the rear of the cottage, which he had originally sketched out months ago, when the rough ground had been covered in builders materials. Making a few minor modifications to avoid the site of the witch pit, now marked with manhole cover type arrangement, cut from some scrap timber, the first day was spent with pegs and string marking out the various beds, and later, removing the rough grass and stones. The turf he stacked carefully to one side for composting, and the stones were piled up by the wall. He wasn't sure what he would need them for, but it seemed a shame to waste them by flinging them over the cliff into the sea.

 _The gifts gin us by our Mother Earth are plentiful, tes good not to waste 'em young 'un. Well done..._

The voice in his ear was unmistakable. Harry froze, spade in hand.

"Dot Gerrans, is that you?"

The only reply was a gust of icy wind, which ruffled his hair, but failed to stir a single leaf on either the apple tree behind him, or the bigger ash tree in the corner of the garden.

After a few minutes, Harry sighed, shrugged, and returned to his digging.

o~o~o

When the light started to fade, and his back, shoulders and hands were becoming too sore to continue, Harry cleaned off his tools and stashed them in the small outhouse. The casserole which he'd left in the range that morning made the kitchen smell wonderful, and his stomach rumbled appreciatively.

There was no TV in the cottage – he had yet to work out whether that was going to be an issue or not, so once he had eaten, he popped one of his extensive DVD collection into his laptop and curled up in the large comfortable armchair in the sitting room. He knew that he really should light a fire, but he was too comfortable to move. The film was barely halfway through, when he fell asleep.

Harry woke, to shivering darkness some hours later. The battery on his laptop must have gone flat as it was completely dead, and the lights were all off. He cursed under his breath. When had he last checked the fuel levels on the generator. Rookie mistake. Moreover, the lack of fire meant that the room was stone cold. Lighting his wand, he stumbled, stiff and cold into the kitchen, which was at least mercifully warmed by the range. Re-stacking the woodburner, he was able to boil a kettle for a cup of tea to thaw him out before he lurched up the stairs to bed, cursing his stiffening muscles. He could look at the generator in the morning.

Pausing in the low ceilinged bathroom to clean his teeth by wandlight, Harry was quickly into his pyjamas. As he returned to the landing to draw the curtain, he was suddenly aware of a presence just behind him, a sudden icy breath and a prickling of the hairs on the back of his neck... Not scary at all for someone used to living with ghosts, just – unmistakably – _there._

Harry smiled, refusing to be fazed. "Goodnight Dot..."

Within minutes he was fast asleep again, lulled by his physical exhaustion and the sound of the sea far below...

o~o~o

Five days later the cottage garden stood neat and tidy, the well dug beds, subdivided by stone paths – Harry had finally found a use for all those small stones that he had laboriously picked out of the soil. Harry's back ached and his hands sported some impressive blisters and callouses, but he was ridiculously pleased with himself.

By now supplies in the kitchen were running low, and Harry was eyeing his firewood supply with concern. He was alright for the time being, but he would need to arrange a sizable delivery before the winter set in – not least because the farm track at the back – the only vehicle access to the cottage – would become impassable if the winter was bad. Having spent the morning making lists he set off to the village on foot just in time for lunch.

Harry spent a pleasant half an hour in the tiny supermarket at the top of the village stocking himself back up, and was pleased to discover that for a very modest fee they would deliver his shopping to the cottage. Relieved of the need to hike heavy bags back through the harbour he decided instead to drop into the Golden Lion for a spot of lunch.

The Lion was a little busier than it had been on his last visit, but after Harry had done ample justice to a large Cornish Pasty and pint of Tribute things had quietened down somewhat, and Jack Bartholomew had a little time to chat. More importantly he was able to give Harry the number of a local man that would be able to solve Harry's firewood problem with ease. He pocketed the business card gratefully.

"We haven't seen you for a few days Harry. Everything alright up there?"

Harry was tempted to tell him about the strange incidents he had experienced, but he was leary of being labelled as 'odd' in his new home. So he chatted idly about his progress with the garden, and the issues with the generator. Jack was sociable and sympathetic – complaining in kind about the problems of beer deliveries in the peak season, and the unreasonable expectations of 'foreign' tourists – "present company excepted Harry."

He was just paying his tab, and rising to leave, when a thought crossed his mind.

"Did I hear you have some sort of New Age shop in the village?"

Jack scowled. "Aye, if you're into that kind of thing"

Harry shrugged. "Just curious really – doing a bit of research"

o~o~o

Following Jack's instructions, Harry climbed the steep hill that led away from the harbour. Taking a left turn, down a tiny side street he found The Raven's Nest sandwiched between an ice cream shop and an art gallery. The small window displayed a range of new age style prints, jewelry, crystals and a few books, but it was still possible to peer through into the dim interior.

The shop was what he would refer to as 'pleasantly cluttered', laid out in such a way that invited passers by to come in and explore further. As Harry entered the shop, stooping to avoid the low lintels which were so common around these parts, he could see that the owner appeared to be a woman around his own age, a little below average height, with wary, wide set eyes, of an unusual shade of golden brown, in a finely drawn, high cheekboned face. Her curly dark brown hair, just tinged with red where the lights caught it, was drawn into a loose bun in the nape of her neck, secured with a ornate wooden stick. She was busy discussing healing crystals with a middle aged woman in jeans, but hearing the bell above the door she looked to see who had entered. Seeing Harry, her eyes widened perceptibly for a moment.

Harry mooched aimlessly around the small shop for as long as it took the middle aged woman to decide on a large piece of Ice Quartz. Once she had paid – an awful lot of money for a lump of rock he thought idly, and left the shop the younger woman eyed him surreptitiously. Picking up a number of items from behind the counter she approached him casually, replacing the items on the shelves. Out of the corner of his eye Harry saw that she had a neat figure, dressed for the chilly weather in a soft dark red jumper, a black velvet skirt that reached almost to her ankles and Victorian style lace up boots.

"Can I help you with something, or are you just browsing?" Her voice was soft, with only the slightest burr of Cornish.

Harry smiled. "I would imagine you get a lot of browsers in here."

The girl – woman thought Harry – chuckled, "Oh yes. Most of my business from the shop comes from the Tarot readings, but I do a lot of business online these days."

"Paganism meets commercialism huh?" Her brows drew together suspiciously, unsure if he was mocking her. Harry backtracked rapidly. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean anything by that. We all have to make a living." He looked around the neat little shop, "You have an interesting selection."

"Were you looking for something in particular?"

Harry looked back at the books. "Yes – well – some information really. Do you have anything on the history of witchcraft in the village at all. I've just moved into Dot's cottage, up on the cliffs, and I understand that it has – history."

She scanned the shelves thoughtfully. I don't know that I do. I could see what I could rustle up though if you don't mind waiting." In the back of the shop came the distinctive whistle of an old fashioned kettle "I was just about to have a cup of tea. Can I offer you one - Mr Potter?"

Now it was Harry's turn to look startled. She smiled at his expression. "Jack Bartholomew is the worst gossip in the village - he was ecstatic to have the low down on the mysterious new arrival – of course, being a muggle, your name didn't mean anything to him."

 _Muggle_

"You're..."

"...a witch. Yes. Did you want that tea?"

"Oh! I'm sorry - that would be lovely, thank you"

While his new friend disappeared into the back of the shop, Harry frowned. He was certain that this woman had not been at Hogwarts – she appeared to be around his own age, and he was sure that he would have remembered her. When she emerged a few minutes later, two mugs in hand he almost blurted out the question..."Where did you go to school? You seem to be about my age, but I'm sure that we haven't met."

She shook her head. "I got my Hogwarts letter, but my mother wasn't well, and there was only the two of us. I didn't want to leave her. So I stayed at the local muggle school, and Mum educated me in magic at home. I would love to learn more, but Mum died when I was eighteen and I took over the shop."

There was something about this woman that was – intriguing thought Harry sipping his tea. "As you know my name, it only seems fair for me to know yours..."

She held out a small hand. "I'm Hermione Granger."

Harry shook her hand gravely. "It's nice to meet you Hermione."

She perched on a high stool behind the counter, and indicated another to Harry, who was happy to join her. Bright eyes regarded him shrewdly over the top of her mug. "So what brings you to Porth Bran Harry? I don't get much in the way of wizarding news around here, but the last I heard you were the youngest wizard to reach Deputy Head of Magical Law Enforcement and were being tipped as the next Minister for Magic. You're an awfully long way from London."

Harry took a swig of his tea, and considered the complex series of events that had brought him to this tiny village. "I suppose the simple version is that I came to the realisation that ever since my letter arrived on my eleventh birthday, and I started to discover who and what I was, I've just done what everyone expected of me. I was the 'boy who lived' then I was 'the chosen one', then once Voldemort was dead and the dust settled I was 'the saviour of the wizarding world' and the Ministry's poster boy. Looking back, I suppose I even married Ginny because - well - I was very fond of her, she was very fond of the idea of being Mrs Harry Potter, and everyone we cared about seemed to expect it of us."

"It didn't work out..."

Harry shook his head. "We married far too soon. I was building my career at the ministry - away from home a lot, working all the hours god sends. Ginny tried to make it as a professional quidditch player, but she although she was good, she was never quite single minded enough for the top flight team, and she would have rather died than play for one of the lesser teams. She got lonely, and bored, then with me away from home too much she started to look elsewhere."

Hermione winced. "That's difficult. Did you know?"

"Not at first. But when I came home early one weekend and found her in bed with Blaize Zabini I couldn't kid myself any longer."

"What did you do?"

Harry looked up, and for a moment his eyes were hard. "I got the best divorce lawyer in London. After that it was all quite straightforward but rather sordid. Ginny scuttled off with poor Zabini - I hope he can afford her - and I threw myself into my work."

"You did very well"

Harry shrugged. "I suppose. The problem is, the higher up you get, the more time you spend pressing the flesh and attending budget meetings. More hours, more stress and less of the satisfaction of actually putting away the bad guys. I sat in my office at ten o clock at night, surrounded by paperwork, and realised I hadn't had an evening at home in over a week. I lost most of my friends in the divorce, had no social life, just an empty house, an ulcer, and a job that had taken over my life. I came to Porth Bran on a whim, and it felt like home."

He flushed suddenly, uncomfortably aware that he was pouring out his life story to this woman. "I'm sorry - you must be regretting ever offering me this." He gestured with his empty mug, setting it on the counter. Hermione smiled - reaching out to collect it her fingers brushed against his for a moment and Harry felt his pulse quicken. Looking up, he saw a corresponding flush across her face.

"I tell you what Harry – why don't you come by tomorrow afternoon, I may have some more information on Dot Gerrans by then."

Harry took a deep breath. He didn't usually move this fast but what the hell. "Perhaps I could come round when you close, and we could have a drink."

She considered for a moment, then smiled. "Why not. Come round at six, that will give me time to close up and cash up."

"I'll see you then Hermione"

At that point the phone rang in the back of the shop, and she turned away to answer it. Harry left, closing the door quietly.

He didn't notice the tall figure, watching him from the other end of the lane.


	3. Chapter 3

_Hello, and thank you for sticking with this stories. Apologies that my updates are not coming quite as fast as I would like but real life has taken over a bit at the moment._

 _Extra thanks to everyone that has taken the time to review - all feedback - even the bad stuff - is gratefully received. Not that I've had too much bad stuff - you've all been incredibly kind._

 _As always, I don't have any claim on JKR's characters, and do this for my pleasure and yours..._

 _Back to the story - and it's date night... Merrick x_

* * *

Late the following afternoon Harry ran down the steep cottage staircase, narrowly missing his head on the low clearance as he descended. Just before he left to meet Hermione he paused for a final nervous check of his appearance in the mirror in the tiny hallway. He ran a final distracted hand through his hair and grimaced ruefully – no matter how he wore it, he had never managed to bring it to anything approaching order, it had been the despair of several of his teachers at school, one of whom was convinced that Harry had only done it to irritate him. Locking the front door he hurried down the path to the garden gate, as he turned to make sure that the gate was shut, something made him stop and look up.

Someone was standing at his bedroom window.

Harry stood, momentarily frozen. The figure was translucent but perfectly visible, even in the dusk, and undoubtedly female – thin, elderly, dressed in an old fashioned grey dress and apron. Harry was shocked, but not frightened. While undoubtedly supernatural there was nothing directly threatening about the apparition. Nonetheless, he was less than happy at the idea of Dot wandering around his bedroom while he was out – or while he was asleep, which was even worse. As he stood watching the figure raised her hand to him, then disappeared.

Did Dot just wave goodbye to him?

Shaking his head, realising that he would be late if he lingered any longer, Harry set off for the village. Walking down the path he wondered whether Dot was there because she needed something from him, or whether she was simply there. If the latter, it looked as though he might have to get used to the idea of sharing his new home with a female occupant. While this was – in itself – no bad thing, the centuries old ghost of an elderly witch wasn't quite what he had in mind.

This turn of thought naturally led his mind to the more pleasant subject of his date with Hermione. The one thing he had never expected was to find another magical person in this tiny village, and to be honest, had he known in advance he may have thought twice about moving there, but Hermione, while aware of his identity had avoided much of the baggage then he had carried around with him since the end of the war.

Navigating the farm gate at the bottom of the footpath, he shook his head. The Boy Who Lived, The Hero of the Wizarding World – he had come to this remote muggle village to leave all of that behind. Too many friends had died, or been lost to him and he had grieved for them for long enough. Now he needed to set all of that aside and build a new life. Was it wrong to wonder whether there was a place in that new life for a softly spoken, dark haired witch with golden eyes.

o~o~o

Harry had made it to The Raven's Nest with only minutes to spare after all that, but Hermione was still shutting down the lights and locking up. She was wearing jeans today, he observed, and another soft looking sweater, this time a dark bronze colour. Her hair was down, and her makeup and hair looked recently refreshed. He was encouraged that she had clearly spent as much time getting ready for this as he had. Hearing his tap on the door, she looked up and smiled. Grabbing her bag from behind the counter, she left only the small security light on in the shop before she set the alarm and locked up.

"Are you alright with the Golden Lion, or would you prefer somewhere else. We could always apparate if you'd prefer"

She smiled. "The Lion is great. But I couldn't apparate anyway. I've never learned. By the time I was of age, I had other things on my mind."

Harry shrugged, not wishing to make a big thing of it. "Even at Hogwarts, not everyone opted to learn. I passed though, so I could always side-along you."

"I'd like to try that sometime, but the Lion is fine for tonight"

"It's a shame you weren't able to go to Hogwarts. There's so much that you must have missed out on."

She chuckled, looking up at him sideways, a little flirtatious. "We would have been in the same year wouldn't we? Do you think we would have been friends?"

He spoke without thinking. "I seriously hope not..."

He realised that she had slowed, her eyes hurt. Realising what he had said he sighed, drawing her into the shelter of a house wall, for the wind off the sea was damp and chilly.

"Hermione, I don't know how much you heard about what went on in our world nearly ten years ago. The war against Voldemort?" She nodded, still offended. "Too many of the people that I was friends with at school died in that war. And those that lived – we're all different. Luna Lovegood was one of my best friends, and I haven't seen her since we left school. The last I heard she's some kind of magical naturalist living rough in the Amazonian jungle. Ron Weasley – he and Luna were a match made in heaven. Now he drinks too much, gets in too many fights – he's shut us all out. One of his brothers died and another was badly injured. I don't think he ever got over it. Then Ginny and I got divorced. The last time I tried to talk to him he punched me through a plate glass window." He rubbed his jaw, remembering.

Hermione put a hand tentatively on his arm. "I'm sorry Harry, I shouldn't have brought back old memories."

He took her hand in his, looking at it thoughtfully. "I was glad you and I weren't friends at Hogwarts because you missed all that Hermione, because you look at me and you just see – well – me. Not all that crap that I've carried around for the last ten years. I came here to leave all that behind. To be just – Harry.

She smiled. Her eyes were warm once more as she tucked her hand through his arm.

"Well, 'just Harry', why don't we go and get that drink now...

o~o~o

The drink inevitably turned into supper. After all it was a chilly night, they had a nice table in The Lion, tucked out of the way but comfortably close to the fire, and the pub's food was simple but very very good.

Having told Hermione so much about himself the previous day, Harry was keen to find a little more about her. She shared stories of growing up in the small, close community of Porth Bran, but her face lost a little of its animation when Harry brought up the issue of her magic. He was careful to keep his voice down to avoid being overheard, although the music and level of conversation in the pub made this unlikely.

"So your Mum was a witch? Was it just the two of you?"

Hermione nodded. "I have no idea who my father was. Mum wouldn't talk about him. He came to the village from the sea, and stayed for a while, living in his boat, doing odd jobs in the village. They fell in love, and he started to talk about sticking around, but when he found out by accident that Mum was a witch, he freaked out and left, never knowing that he had a daughter." She took a sip of her glass of wine. "To be honest, we never really missed him. We were so close, as I grew up, more like sisters than mother and daughter, which was just as well, because as I got older, and my magic started to show itself we spent more and more time together. Kids don't always know what it is that's different - but they know something is don't they?"

Harry nodded, remembering the small but telling occurrences in the days before Hogwarts, which had suddenly made sense when Hagrid had arrived with his letter. "Do you mind me asking - what happened to her?"

Hermione's eyes were soft and sad. "I was ten when the headaches started. She put it down to her age, to stress, to not getting enough sleep. She used to dose herself with herbal remedies and headache potions, which kept the pain under control, but it never went away, and gradually it just got worse. She had her first seizure two weeks after I got my Hogwarts letter - I knew then that I couldn't leave her. I've never been so frightened in my life as I was at that moment."

Harry reached out taking the hand that wasn't twisting her glass in endless circles. "They took her to hospital, did scans, tests. It was a brain tumour. Malignant and inoperable." She looked up at him, eyes far away. "We fought it together. With muggle drugs and magical potions. With special diets, crystals and chemotherapy. She got five more years than they originally gave her, but in the end it was too much for her. The last six months she kept forgetting who I was. I would wake up in the middle of the night and find her sitting by the window looking for my father's boat - she wanted to tell him about the baby... I wanted to keep her at home, but in the end she needed more care than I could give her - I think she was waiting for me to turn eighteen, to be an adult. She was terrified that they'd take me into care when she died."

Harry shook his head. "I can't even begin to imagine how that felt, being eighteen and alone. I didn't have my parents, but I had people around me - did you not have anyone to help you."

She shook her head. "The people in the village were very kind, but they had their own lives. For a few weeks, they dropped in, helped me with the funeral arrangements and things, but eventually things went back to normal. I had the shop to keep going - I just had to get on with it. And there were some who's help I could do without..." Realising that she had said more than she intended, she fell silent, biting her lip.

The awkward silence was broken by the arrival of their food, and the conversation turned to the subject of Harry's search. Hermione fished out a small notebook from her bag, and rummaged frantically through its pages. "I've found out a little bit about Dot Gerrans Harry. She was born and brought up in Porth Bran. She was the daughter of an innkeeper - The Dolphin, which was supposed to be more upmarket than places like this, down by the harbour. The building is still standing, further up the hill, but it's a house now.

Dot was quite well educated for those days - especially for a woman. She could read and write, and taught the village children their letters. When her father died, her younger sister and her husband took over the inn, and Dot took the cottage that you now live in. She obviously had a little money, and preferred to live alone. Dot then drops off the map until the record of her death in 1793 aged 44. Local legend has it that she was executed for witchcraft, but there are no records of her trial or her execution which is odd. Normally, even witches were given some form of recorded formal trial. There is someone who might know more though..." Harry, who's face had fallen at the continued mystery of Dot's death perked up noticeably "...although what I really want to know is why you're so keen to find out. I mean – I know that she lived in your cottage, but that was centuries ago."

Harry took a quick look around to see whether they were likely to be overheard. "The problem is Hermione..." he kept his voice deliberately low, "...the problem is, she's still there."

Hermione smothered a cough as she nearly choked on her fish pie. "I'm sorry. Did you just say... Harry, there's no such thing as ghosts"

Harry's eyebrows rose. "By that thinking Hermione, there's no such thing as magic, or witches and wizards. Besides there are such things as ghosts, there were at least five ghosts in permanent residence at Hogwarts Castle..."

Hermione huffed. "You refer to that place a lot you know." Without thinking, she reached casually over and helped herself to one of Harry's chips.

He smirked. "Please – feel free..."

Horrified, Hermione realised what she had just done. "I'm so sorry – I"

He laughed. "No seriously Hermione, don't worry about it." He reached across the table and took her hand in his. "If I haven't completely put you off by incessantly talking about Hogwarts, perhaps you might like to come up to the cottage one evening and see for yourself. As a witch you should be able to at least hear her, even if you can't see her". He looked down at their fingers, entwined on the stained table top. "I could cook us supper if you wanted."

Hermione was also looking down at their hands, but at this she looked up. "You'll cook for me? Should I be worried?"

"Well it won't be cordon bleu, but I can rustle up a fair roast dinner – even in my wonky old range."

Hermione was working things out in her head. "I tell you what, are you free on Sunday?" Harry nodded. "There's a local history buff, Arthur Benesek who might know a little more. If I can get in touch with him, perhaps we could see him on Sunday afternoon, then I could take you up on your offer."

"You're on." Reaching for a paper napkin, he scrawled his mobile number down for her.

She laughed. "Well I'll try to call you, but I would normally have to walk up past your cottage onto the clifftop to get any kind of signal. You'll just have to stick your head round the door when you're in the village next."

It dawned on Harry that she could just as easily have given him the shop's landline, but if she wanted to see him again – even briefly – before Sunday, that was fine by him. Reaching for the menu card on the table he looked up at her. "I don't suppose you fancy splitting a treacle pudding do you? Treacle tart is my absolute favourite, but I can force myself to make do with the pudding at a pinch..."

It was later than either of them had expected when they finally left The Lion, and it felt surprisingly natural for Harry to take her hand as they walked back through the village. Although the night was chilly, it was mercifully dry, and the wind hand dropped. Above them a few stars peeped out through the scudding clouds.

"Do you live above the shop?"

She nodded, her eyes on the clouds still. "Yes, I have a little flat up there. It was a bit small when there was me and Mum, but it's plenty big enough for just me and Morrighan"

"Morrighan?"

She giggled. "My cat – and yes, she's a proper witches familiar. All black with big green eyes. But she's a soppy old thing really, and good company as cats go"

"It's a good job you're a 21st Century witch, or you'd be in _big_ trouble..."

By now they were turning into her street. She stopped by a small dark green door, next to the shop, reaching into her jeans' pocket for her key.

"I had a lovely evening Harry – thank you."

"And I'll see you on Sunday?"

"Before that I hope – pop in if we're quiet and I'll make you another cup of tea. I might even rustle up some biscuits"

"Now there's an offer I can't refuse." Reaching out, he rested a hand gently on the back of her neck his thumb running along the line of her jaw. Bending his head he kissed her - very gentle and undemanding. A first date was too early to push things – there was no rush. Nonetheless, her lips under his were warm and soft and eager, and it took considerable self control for him to break away, resting his forehead against hers for a moment, waiting for his pulse to steady.

"Goodnight Hermione." Brushing his lips softly over her hair, he turned and strode down the street before he changed his mind. At the corner he stopped and looked back. She was standing in her open doorway, watching him. As he raised his hand, she waved back, before going in and closing the door.


	4. Chapter 4

_An extra long update this time. This was originally two chapters, but on second thoughts it seemed to work better as one. In which Harry has a bad morning and a better afternoon, and we get to find out a little more about Hermione and Dot..._

 _I don't think I've said this for a while, so for the record, I don't have any claim on any of JKR's characters. Jack Bartholomew, Dot Gerrans and all subsidiary characters however are all my own work..._

 _Merrick x_

* * *

Dot woke Harry up at approximately 9.30 the following morning.

No matter how used to the supernatural you were, getting woken up by a ghost, thought Harry, pulling the pillow over his head, was cold and definitely creepy. He supposed he should be grateful that she just blew freezing cold air over him. It could have been the glass of water by his bed that ended up in his face. Could she move things, he wondered. It appeared that today she couldn't even speak, although the fact that she was clearly frightened by something was obvious. It dawned on him that he could see her again – yesterday evening had been the first time.

So it seemed that she either had the energy to speak to him, or to make him see her. Not both. Interesting...

Harry gave up, and sat up in bed pushing his hair out of his face. "What is it Dot?" How had this become his life? That he was sitting up in bed talking to a _ghost_ as though it was the most normal thing in the world. A possible answer came only seconds later, when the sound of a lorry's reversing alarm was heard outside.

"Shit. The wood delivery" In all the excitement of last night's date, he had clean forgotten that his firewood was arriving this morning. Dragging on jeans and jumper over his pyjamas he belted downstairs two steps at a time.

When the explosion went off in his head, it took him completely by surprise. He landed, gasping, in a heap at the foot of the stairs wondering where the mysterious assailant that had clearly hit him with a baseball bat at the very least, had been hiding.

The pounding in his head was not only overwhelming, but in perfect counterpoint to another noise that apparently wasn't going away either.

The door. The man with the firewood was banging on the door.

Lurching to his feet, Harry managed to stagger the few feet across the hall. Fumbling with the lock, he winced as the bright autumn sunlight ratcheted his headache up by several more points.

 _Two_ men were standing there – or was he seeing double?

"Harry? Are you alright mate?" One of the men's faces finally resolved into the familiar features of Jack Bartholomew. What was he doing here?

"Jack?"

"Blimey Harry, did you have a skinful when you got home last night, 'cos you were sober as a judge when you left The Lion? Gettin' loaded on your own's not healthy y'know?"

Harry scowled lopsidedly at him, wondering why his right ankle hurt so ferociously. "Not hungover" he mumbled, slightly bemused. "Head. Something hit me on the head"

Things went a bit woozy after that, and the next thing he knew he was seated in the big chair by the range. A second man, that Harry didn't think he knew, was stacking wood into the burner. Jack was peering at his head, frowning.

"Something's caught you a right purler Harry. What's the last thing you remember?"

"Dot" No – not Dot – that was a secret. Harry scowled again, concentrating. "Don't know. Remember running down the stairs."

Jack left the kitchen, and came back a few minutes later. "Ouch. That must've hurt. Looks to me like you ran straight into the floor level over the stairs. Do you think you fell or just hit your head?"

Harry nodded, then wished he hadn't because it made his head pound even harder. "Fell. Ankle _really_ hurts".

Jack turned to the other man, who had finished with the range by now, and was hovering uncertainly. "Zack, do me a favour mate, and give Doctor Smith a call. I think he's just knocked himself a bit silly, but we'd probably best get him checked out, and it'll take weeks for an ambulance to get here."

He turned back to Harry. "Are you alright here Harry, or would you like us to move you to the sitting room in a minute?"

Harry didn't respond. He was watching Dot, who was noticeably more solid than usual, and was watching the visitors with the deepest suspicion. Harry hoped she wasn't going to be like this with everyone that came to visit. She appeared to be shouting, although Harry still couldn't hear a word she was saying. Either way, his resident ghost was _not_ happy

"Harry!"

He turned back to Jack, still squinting slightly. Why was everything still out of focus. He put his hand up to rub his eyes and at least one mystery clicked into place.

"Glasses"

Jack grinned. "I was trying to work out what was different. Where are they Harry?"

Thinking was an effort, but Harry was fairly certain that he hadn't put them on before his headlong flight down the stairs. "On my bedside table I think"

"Congratulations mate, that's the first even remotely coherent sentence I've heard from you today. Don't go away." He left the kitchen, and moments later, could be heard overhead in Harry's bedroom.

When he came back, Harry put his glasses on with some relief. Having everything out of focus wasn't helping his headache."

"Who's the other guy?"

"Zack Martin. You ordered some wood off him yesterday morning. His son Dave normally helps him out, but he's got the upchucks this morning, so I said I'd give him a hand. He and I've known each other since we were in nappies and Lord knows I owe him a favour or three. Good job I did, 'cos Zack would've just dropped the wood off and left you on the floor. He's phoned the Doc, now he should be stacking your wood out the back as we speak. Come on. Let's get you more comfortable."

Getting Harry from the kitchen to the sofa was a protracted and painful process. Aside from his head, the muscles in his back ached abominably, it hurt every time he breathed – bruised ribs probably, and he could hardly bear to put weight on his right ankle. Eventually though, he was settled much more comfortably on the sofa, with a rug over his knees. Throughout the move he had been aware of Dot still hovering anxiously at his shoulder, glaring mistrustfully at Jack.

A knock at the door finally announced that the Doctor had arrived. Harry sighed with relief.

o~o~o

An hour or so later Hermione was behind the counter in the shop, her nose in a book of Herbology, a cup of tea in hand, for it had been a quiet morning. When the door chimed she looked up with a smile, half expecting that it might be Harry.

The smile slid off her face, the be replaced with a frown. It wasn't Harry

"Jack Bartholomew. This is a surprise." Her voice was flat and suspicious. "What do you want?"

Bartholomew held his hand up in a placating gesture. "Relax Hermione, I come in peace."

She let out a most unladylike snort. "Somehow I find that hard to believe. You play the genial charmer in the Lion Bartholomew, but you don't fool me for a minute. I know what you are. A piece of...

"... now really Granger, such unladylike language when I've come to do you a favour"

Hermione's body language was giving nothing away, her eyes hard, arms crossed defensively.

"I've just been to your boyfriend's house. I'm afraid there's been an accident."

Hermione stalked out from behind the counter, eyes flashing. "What did you do Bartholomew?"

Bartholomew eyes ran over her slowly her from her slim fitting jeans and black knee high boots to the dark curls and furious eyes with distinct appreciation. "Relax Miss Granger. He ran down the stairs without his glasses and ran straight in to the upper floor level. Fell down the stairs. Nearly knocked himself out. Zack and I took care of him, called Doc Smith. He's got concussion, two cracked ribs and a badly sprained ankle."

Hermione's face wasn't giving anything away. "Thank you"

"Steady. _Ice maiden_. Anyone would think you cared. Anyone that doesn't know you that is"

She rolled her eyes. "Seriously Bartholomew. I had dinner with him once. I have a business to run – you think I'm going to rush up there at the drop of a hat to mop his fevered brow. Thank you for letting me know, I'll be sure to call him tonight. Now get the hell out of my shop. Don't you have glasses to wash or something?" With that she returned to her book and her mug of tea, pointedly ignoring him.

Eventually he gave up baiting her, and with an ostentatious. "No really it was no bother, don't trouble to thank me" he stamped out of the shop with a poisonous glance over his shoulder.

Hermione gave him another half an hour before she turned the sign in the door to CLOSED, and locked up. As she hurried up the hill to Harry's cottage she paused for a moment, something making her look round sharply. At an upstairs window across the harbour a tall figure stepped hastily backwards out of sight

o~o~o

Ten minutes later she knocked hesitantly on the door of Dot's Cottage. When there was no reply she tentatively opened the door a little.

"Harry?"

"Hermione? In the sitting room. On the left"

Hermione peered cautiously round the door and gasped. "Harry, what the hell happened?"

Every one of Harry's considerable collection of books was scattered around the floor. It looked as though there had been an explosion.

"Did Bartholomew do this?"

Harry looked puzzled. Battered but puzzled. "Jack? Why would you think _he_ did this? No, it was Dot." He looked at Hermione thoughtfully. "And it appears that she isn't the only one with a profound dislike of Jack Bartholomew."

Hermione stared at him. "Seriously Harry, you must've hit your head harder than you thought. You're saying that _Dot_ did this? Dot Gerrans? _The_ Dot Gerrans that's been dead for over ..." The sentence ended in a gasp – her eyes widening in shock.

There was an elderly lady standing protectively over Harry's shoulder. Her expression wasn't unfriendly, but the smile on her face was definitely a _smirk._ The smirk was clear in spite of the fact that the midday sun was shining straight through her. Hermione definitely didn't believe in ghosts, but she did believe the evidence of her own eyes. She took a deep breath and admitted to herself that on this one - solitary - never to be repeated occasion - she may have been wrong.

"Um. It's nice to finally meet you Miss Gerrans"

Harry smiled smugly. "She's quite happy with Dot. Dot, may I introduce Miss Hermione Granger?"

Hermione picked up a book whose binding had come loose and glared at Dot disapprovingly. "Miss Gerrans. I entirely share your dislike of Jack Bartholomew, but can you please not indicate it so – physically. With Harry incapacitated it will fall to me to clear this mess up, which hardly seems fair as we are entirely in agreement.

Besides. Abusing books is never acceptable"

Was it Harry's imagination, or did Dot look _sheepish?_

Hermione tutted in irritation before turning back to Harry, her expression softening. "Harry, before I start clearing up, shall I make some tea? And have you actually eaten anything today?"

Harry shook his head, blushing as his stomach rumbled embarrassingly. Hermione chuckled softly. "Poor Harry, you _have_ had a bad morning." Ignoring the other chair she perched comfortably next to him, clucking over the lump on his forehead, which was rapidly darkening through every colour of the rainbow. "How bad is the headache? Have they given you anything for it?" When he shook his head, wincing she frowned. "The annoying thing is that I can't heal you now without inviting all sorts of questions; I'm afraid you're just going to have to heal the muggle way." When Harry's stomach rumbled again she remembered her original mission. "Now, tea, and lunch – am I likely to find any food in your kitchen?"

Harry scowled unconvincingly. "I may be a man, but I'm not entirely helpless you know- despite current appearances to the contrary. I had a grocery delivery yesterday."

As she left the sitting room, it dawned on Harry that it was a weekday. "Err, Hermione. Not that it isn't wonderful to see you, but don't you have a shop to run?"

Hermione shrugged airily. "I've been ridiculously quiet all morning. I had three people in the shop since nine – one of which was Bartholomew, and only one person bought anything. Knowing my luck there'll be a huge coach party in the village this afternoon, but that's a chance I'll take" Rising she stepped carefully around Harry's beleaguered library and headed to the kitchen.

When she returned approximately twenty minutes later with tea, sandwiches and some biscuits, Harry was dozing on the sofa, and all the books were back on the shelves. There was also no sign of Harry's resident guardian angel. Setting the tray down on a convenient side table, she bent to wake her patient

"Harry." He didn't respond, making Hermione frown in concern. She bent a little closer, brushing the messy black hair out of his eyes. "Harry?" She was unable to repress a surprised squeak when a strong arm snaked around her waist, pulling her closer.

"I'm awake" he murmured against her lips, just before he kissed her..

As kisses went, thought Hermione, this was clearly meant to be pretty low-key. Nonetheless, she couldn't help the embarrassingly needy whimper it elicited, as he drew her against his chest, one hand cradling the back of her head.

"I love your hair" Harry's hand was investigating the carved dragon stick that was holding her hair up. "How does this work?"

She laughed, slightly breathless. "It's really simple – just pull". He did, and gave a pleased growl as her hair tumbled over her shoulder. "You are gorgeous, you know that?" Things were heating up rapidly, she thought, through the pounding of the blood in her ears as Harry pulled her on top of him, and Harry was a _great_ kisser. Unfortunately his pained intake of breath brought her right back to earth.

"Harry! You're hurt. This is not a good idea."

"I'm fine." Harry reached for her, but Hermione was having none of it. With one last kiss, which clung for just long enough to take away any thought of rejection, she moved firmly away.

"You need to eat something – and rest."

Harry pouted adorably. "Yes dear"

Once they were having lunch, and her pulse rate was something approaching normal, Hermione registered the changes in the room. "What happened to the books? Should you be casting spells at the moment?"

Harry took a second to finish a mouthful of cheese and pickle before he answered. "I didn't do anything. If you didn't do it, Dot must have while I was napping" He looked around. "Now you mention it, where _is_ Dot? She hasn't left my side since she woke me up this morning when Jack and the wood delivery guy arrived."

Hermione smiled grimly. "Clearly she doesn't trust Jack Bartholomew any more than I do. Now I'm here, she knows you're in good hands."

Harry looked at her beadily over the top of his mug of tea. "At the moment I don't appea to be in your hands at all, which is a pity. Changing the subject, what _is_ it with you and Jack Bartholomew

Hermione sighed, looking into her tea as though she could read the mysteries of the universe in its depths. "It's a long story Harry. Let's just say that we were at school together, and we weren't friends then. After all these years we've learned to tolerate one another – it's too small a village not to, but I still don't like him, and I don't trust him. Having said that, he did come and tell me what had happened to you." She looked up briefly. "I may have given him the impression that I wasn't that bothered. I suppose I didn't want him to know..."

"Know what?"

She dropped her eyes, not wanting to give too much away. "...how – worried I was. I really enjoyed our date last night..."

Harry smiled, holding out a hand. "Hermione, if I promise to be a perfect gentleman, will you come here - please?"

With a show of reluctance that was entirely feigned, Hermione returned to perch at his side. Taking her tea from her, he took her hand in his. "I'm going to say this – probably sooner than I should, but - I really like you Hermione, and I'd like to see where this takes us." He smoothed the hair forward over her shoulder, allowing one dark chestnut curl to wrap around his finger. "There's no rush, I'm not going to push things, but I just wanted to make sure you know. If you just want to be friends – well that would be a terrible shame, but I would have to respect that."

Hermione was looking down at their hands, her face giving little away. When she looked up her smile was shy, but warm. Leaning forward, she kissed him softly, "I want to see where this takes us too Harry." Her smile became mischievous. "After all, I don't just drop everything and shut up shop for any Tom, Dick or..." she realised where this was going, and chuckled. "...only this Harry."

No matter how good the company, Harry had had a busy morning, and suppressed a yawn very badly. Hermione rearranged the blanket over his legs. "Why don't you have a nap, while I explore your library?"

Harry frowned, his eyes already heavy. "Am I allowed to sleep. On TV they have to keep waking you up don't they?"

Hermione produced her wand, and past it over his skull, muttering a charm under her breath. When she'd finished she smiled. "Nothing to worry about Harry, you have a little swelling, and a lot of bruising, but there isn't anything sinister that won't heal naturally." She dropped a kiss on his hair. "Sleep now. I'll wake you in a couple of hours."

Harry settled himself back onto a cushion sighing with relief. Within minutes he was fast asleep.

o~o~o

By the time Harry woke the evening was drawing in and the curtains were closed; the room was lit by the logs burning in the fireplace, and the small reading lamp next to Hermione's chair. She was curled up, fast asleep, another rug over her knees, a copy of the 14th revision of _Moste Potente Potions_ open on her lap. Harry lay on the sofa, warm and comfortable, despite the discomfort of his bruised ribs and the niggling pain behind his eyes and smiled, wondering at how easily they had slid into each other's lives. All that was missing was Morrighan, her familiar on the hearthrug for the scene to be complete.

o~o~o

Harry must have dozed off again for a little while, because when he opened his eyes again, the fire was burning lower, and Dot was back. She was crouched beside Hermione's chair, a hand on the sleeping woman's forehead.

"Dot, what are you doing to Hermione?"

Dot turned around, finger to lips for silence. Then she disappeared.

Harry tried to drag himself off the sofa, but he had been still for too long, and was horribly stiff and sore. He groaned as he stood up, making his head swim and his ankle throb uncomfortably. Hermione's eyes opened, confused for a moment, before they focused on Harry, and cleared.

"Harry?" Hermione sat up, rubbing her eyes. "I had the strangest dream..."

Harry subsided gratefully back onto the sofa – his ankle was really killing him. "What did you dream about? Was it anything to do with Dot?"

Hermione's eyes were huge. "How did you know?"

"When I woke up just now, Dot was by your side."

Hermione looked pale and shaken. "It was horrible"

Harry leaned back into the sofa, one arm extended in a clear invitation. Pausing to stack more wood on the fire, Hermione joined him, curling comfortably against his un-injured side.

"Tell me..."

Hermione shook her head sadly. "Poor Dot, she never saw it coming. I don't know what they thought she'd done, but it was basically a lynch mob. She only had a few minutes warning before they came for her." Hermione turned her head into Harry's chest, her eye full of the horror of that moment. "They hung her Harry" she whispered. "They dragged her out into the garden and they hung her from the ash tree in the garden. Then they threw her body into the sea..."


	5. Chapter 5

_Thank you to everyone that is following this story. The response has been wonderful. Some of my reviewers have been trying to guess how this is going to work out, but I don't think anyone is quite there yet._

 _Things are heating up a little in this chapter. **The warnings about the dark themes kick in at this point...**_

 _Enjoy - we're nearly there... only a few more chapters to go. Merrick x_

* * *

That night Harry remained on the sofa, gallantly surrendering his bed to Hermione as it had been far too late for her to walk home alone. Not that he was up to climbing, or even apparating to his room anyway. But it was comforting to know that Hermione was upstairs and safe in his home.

For a while, they were content to take it slowly, Hermione spent every night at home in her flat - much to the purring delight of Morrighan, who had been most indignant at being abandoned overnight. Nonetheless, she would either manage to slip up to the cottage for a few hours, often sharing supper at Harry's large kitchen table; or gradually, as Harry became more mobile, he would sometimes walk into the village, meeting her from the shop and taking her for supper.

By then it was the middle of November and Harry was fully recovered from his accident, finally abandoning the stick that he had needed to get around. After Harry's accident Hermione had been in touch with Arthur Benesek, the local historian, who's house they had been due to visit. Now Harry was back on his feet, Mr Benesek was joining them for Sunday lunch, and Hermione suspected, fondly, that he was trying to impress her. Consequently, when Hermione arrived at the cottage on the Saturday afternoon she found Harry seated at the large kitchen table preparing vegetables for the following day's lunch, while something savoury and delicious was clearly in the range oven.

Hermione paused in the doorway, taking a deep breath. "Something smells _amazing_ "

Harry rose to greet her, kissing her thoroughly as though it had been far more than eighteen hours since he had last done so. When they eventually paused for breath Hermione sniffed appreciatively. "So what does smell so good? Is that for tomorrow?"

Harry shook his head. "No, I'm doing a roast tomorrow. That's for our supper. Is lasagne alright?"

Hermione kissed him again, "lasagne will be wonderful. I know you said you could cook – I'm very impressed." She looked at him sideways – suddenly suspicious. "Or is it a frozen one?"

Harry looked suitably affronted. "Frozen Miss Granger! I'll have you know that lasagne is one of my specialities – cooked from scratch. It's a recipe an old friend's mother gave me. It takes most of the day but it's absolutely worth it."

"I apologise unreservedly; I can't wait to try it. Have you got dessert for tomorrow?"

Harry shook his head. "I thought I might rustle up an apple pie or something tomorrow morning, while the roast is in the slow oven. Why?"

"Because I've been doing some cooking of my own. She passed him the tin which had been sitting on the table since her arrival. I thought you might like this..."

Harry opened the tin and looked at her in awe. "Hermione Granger, have I told you in the last ten minutes that you are a wonderful, wonderful woman? Because if I haven't I should have done." He put the tin down to show his appreciation more thoroughly. Between kisses, he murmured into her hair... "how did you know that treacle tart is my absolute favourite desert _ever_?"

Hermione laughed, a little breathless.

"You may have mentioned it that first night at The Lion – before you dived nose first into treacle sponge and custard. Besides, it's easier to make in advance than treacle sponge." She clapped her hand to her mouth in horror. "Harry! You must stop distracting me! There's someone I'd like you to meet."

Despite her suggestions that he stay in the kitchen, Harry grabbed his stick and limped to the door. An old fashioned bicycle was propped against the gate. In addition to Hermione's rucksack that was already in the kitchen, there was a smaller bag in the front basket, and the rack on the back had a large wicker cat basket attached to it."

"Morrighan!" Harry exclaimed in delight. "But did you peddle that thing up here with all that strapped onto it?"

Hermione laughed – shaking her head, as she retrieved her cat to prowl cautiously around the kitchen, handing the remaining bags to Harry to bring them into the house, before wheeling her bike round to the back of the house. Arriving back in the kitchen she opened her rucksack, producing a cat bed, food, bowls and litter tray, all of which had been shrunk for easier transportation. Looking up, she saw that Harry was sitting beside her, on the table, watching her with unusual intensity.

"Hermione?"

"Yes Harry"

"You weren't planning on going home tonight were you?"

Looking down, Hermione found that she was blushing furiously. Perhaps she _should_ have waited for an invitation. Perhaps she was assuming too much about their relationship – which was still in its very early stages after all. To her utter mortification, she found that she was stammering like a nervous schoolgirl.

"Look – look – it - it's fine. I'm sorry – I mean – I'm quite happy with the sofa – or I could – oh dammit!"

A warm strong hand took hers, and drew her closer. Seated on the table, Hermione between his legs, they were almost eye to eye. His green eyes, which had fascinated her since their first meeting, were warm and teasing, with an underlying heat which was very promising.

"Hermione. Hermione – sweetheart..."

But she was so nervous now, that she couldn't seem to shut up, until finally he chuckled, and drew her still closer to silence her in a way that was both highly effective and utterly delightful.

"Sweetheart, I would like nothing better than to wake up next to you tomorrow morning, if you're comfortable with that. I don't want to rush you."

Wrapping her arms around his neck, Hermione kissed him – full and soft and intense enough to completely stop Harry's brain...

"Harry"

"Mmmhmm"

"Rush me – please"

Harry didn't need telling twice... he could have apparated them - but carrying her upstairs honeymoon style was so much more fun.

o~o~o

Hermione opened her eyes reluctantly. Harry was sprawled across the big bed, one arm wrapped tightly around her, possessive even in sleep, his face buried in her hair. The sun had set and the room was almost completely dark. Physically sated, and deeply content, she closed her eyes again, snuggling up against him.

At that moment - to her utter mortification - her stomach rumbled very loudly. Harry chuckled and rolled over, partially pinning her to the mattress. "I'm sorry, am I keeping you from something more important?"

Hermione gasped as his lips brushed gently down the sensitive skin below her ear.. "Well if you if you keep expecting such strenuous demonstrations of my – my feelings for you – a girl needs feeding."

Harry chuckled, and pushed the damp curls back off her face, kissing her slowly and unhurriedly, fingers drifting lightly over her skin until she was shaking and breathless. "Well I suppose if you put it like that..." He abruptly rolled off the bed, laughing at her outrage as he reached for the light switch.

" _Harry!"_

There was a click, and all the power went out.

" _Shit!"_ cursed Harry. "Dot is that you? Because if it is your timing is truly awful. Can you please put the lights back on?" Nothing happened. "Dot? Hello". He sighed gustily. "Fine, it's the generator then..." Lighting his wand he pulled his jeans and shoes on, before turning back to kiss Hermione's hair. "I don't suppose you would mind sorting the supper out while I go and try to turn the lights back on?"

"Leave it with me."

Rather than hobbling down the stairs, Harry left a hovering globe of light for Hermione, sending two more downstairs with a flick of his wand, before simply apparating with a sharp crack.

"Show off" Hermione muttered, reaching for her panties and Harry's shirt and heading downstairs. "How did this happen. I've known this guy a few weeks and already I'm barefoot in his kitchen..." She stretched out some very pleasant aches, and breathed in the delicious smells coming from the range. "All that and he cooks too – _totally_ worth it."

Grabbing an oven glove she bent to open the oven door, blessing Harry's foresight in sending down the lights, when a voice behind her made her freeze.

"Now there's a _very_ pretty sight. What a pity it isn't meant for me..."

Not fancying the idea of hot lasagne all over her bare feet, Hermione took a deep breath and carefully placed the dish back in the oven for the time being, before turning round, cursing the fact that she'd left her wand upstairs. "What do you want Bartholomew – and what the hell are you doing here?"

o~o~o

Between the shade of the cottage and the hills behind the back garden and generator shed were in darkness. Cursing the cold wind and the fact that he hadn't picked up a shirt or better still a jacket on the way out, Harry muttered the charm to open the door.

Lighting his wand, Harry carefully worked his way through all of the usual suspects, but there was no sign of any good reason for the generator not to work. He had never tried it before, but in desperation he tried conjuring a diagnostic spell. Hermione had used it to detect problems with his head, maybe it could detect the fault in the generator...

" _D_ _amnum revelaré_ _"_ Harry grinned triumphantly as a valve at the back of the shed glowed a sickly green, then cursed roundly and fluently when he realised that the valve's proximity to the back wall of the shed meant that it was almost impossible for him to reach from his current position. Walking around to the back of the shed, he pondered exactly hard it was going to be to take the wall down without damaging it so badly that it would need replacing...

o~o~o

Back in the kitchen, Hermione eyed Bartholomew uneasily. His face was flushed and there was a febrile glitter to his eyes that made her uncomfortable. The way that his glance kept drifting lasciviously down her bare legs however was much much worse, and she shuddered to imagine how much he had seen when he walked in.

"Y'see _Granger,_ I had a nice relaxing afternoon, so I decided to take the evening off too and I just got to thinking that I'd come up and see my mate Harry." There was a distinct slur to his voice, and his movements were unusually awkward. "Except it seems that Harry already has his hands full..."

Hermione tilted her chin and glared at him "Exactly how much _have_ you had to drink today Bartholomew? I can smell you from here. Harry's just popped out to the shed, he'll be back any moment..."

"Well we'll just have to hurry then..."

For a drunk man he could move surprisingly quickly. Hermione found herself pinned down against the heavy oak table by the weight of his body. Bartholomew smelled of whisky and sweat, making her turn her head in disgust, but in spite of her best efforts to push him away, he was too heavy.

His face was buried in her neckline breathing in deeply, making her skin crawl. "Turnabout is fair play sweetheart. I can smell you too – or at least I can smell _him."_ His eyes were black with fury. "You reek of sex you little whore"

Hermione was struggling to breathe, but managed to spit defiance regardless. "Go to hell Bartholomew"

"Oh I'm already there Granger. Why him huh? You've had me trailing after you like a dog after a bitch in heat since we were at school. But I was never good enough for you was I? Then the rich city guy arrives him and you're on your back at the click of his fingers. You make me _sick!"_

Hermione tried, she really tried. but his superior size and strength were too much for her. One large hand was wrapped around her throat, pinning her down on the table, making the fight for the next breath an agonising struggle. Both hands gripped Bartholomew's wrist desperately trying to shift it, but she might as well have tried to lift the ash tree in the garden. She cringed feeling him pressed hard against her thigh, but her vision was starting to darken alarmingly around the edges as she fought to remain conscious, and there was little she could do.

"You're all the same – panting after the new guy, the rich guy – always willing to sell yourself like the sluts that you are. _Women_. Just the same..." Bartholomew leaned over her to whisper in her ear. "Well now it's my turn _Granger_ and if you won't roll over nicely like a good girl – I'll just have to help myself" Enjoying the fear and rage in her eyes, he slowly undid the buttons of Harry's shirt, grinning wolfishly when he discovered how little she was wearing beneath it... Her hands left his wrist to try to fight him off, but his grip on her throat only tightened further forcing her to comply.

Once the shirt was unbuttoned, he ran a single finger slowly down her body. Her rage was ebbing now – to be replaced by terror. He hooked a finger into the elastic of her panties, and his smile widened as he saw the tears spring to her eyes. _Finally she was at his mercy. All the years that she had scorned him, now he would finally have his revenge. Unable to move, unable cry out, unable to breath. Her fear and humiliation were sweeter than anything he had ever known before….._

"Well well Granger, this is going to be fun. Struggle a bit harder sweetheart. _Please..."_

* * *

 _We're going away for a few days this weekend, but I'm expecting reasonable internet access, so I should get the next chapter up as usual. If I don't get anything done till the middle of next week though - please don't hate me - blame my in law's slightly chancy internet xxx_


	6. Chapter 6

_Well... I managed to get my in law's wifi working for long enough to edit this chapter so fingers crossed this works.._

 _Thank you for the fantastic feedback from the last chapter. It was hard to avoid making light of the subject while trying to stay out of M territory. I hope I managed it - and it's always a bonus when I can surprise you._

 _I'm afraid things are going to stay fairly dark in this chapter too..._

 _Merrick x_

* * *

Hermione knew that there was nothing she could do. In her state of panic, unable to breathe and without her wand she was powerless to defend herself. She closed her eyes and tried to distance herself from the feeling of his hands on her skin... when help came from the last place she expected...

 _Go limp gal, play dead..._

Through the pounding of the blood in her ears, the Cornish voice in her head was perfectly clear... and Hermione didn't stop to think. Closing her eyes she gave a small moan and allowed herself to go completely limp, sliding off the edge of the table.

Taken by surprise the hand around her throat loosened for just a moment but it was enough...

 _Now gal, you scream the bloody place down..._

o~o~o

Harry had managed to get enough of the back of the shed loose to expose the valve that had caused him so much trouble, although Merlin knew how long it was going to take to put it all back together. Maybe he just needed to get a bigger shed. One which would allow to get full access to the generator, so that he didn't have to stand out here half dressed, in the dark, freezing his arse off.

The chilly presence at his shoulder was unmistakable.

"Dot. I like you - I really do. You're a good person and I'm really sorry about what happened to you. But unless you know how to fix generators, you really need to leave me in peace right now."

But Dot didn't go away. Instead she started blowing freezing cold air in his ear, until he finally gave up, groaning as he stretched his aching back, feeling his ribs twinge as he straightened up. "Enough Dot, ok. I'm stuck out here while the girl of my dreams is waiting inside. I just need to..." His voice tailed off when he saw the frantic look on her face. "Dot. What the hell's the matter?"

From inside the cottage, he heard Hermione scream.

o~o~o

Harry crashed through the back door into the kitchen and momentarily paralysed by horror, the breath leaving his lungs in a rush as a burning rage fogged his brain making coherent thought impossible for a moment...

Hermione was cowering on the kitchen floor wearing only, his shirt, which was unbuttoned, exposing her completely; the remains of her underwear were thrown across the floor. Jack Bartholomew was kneeling over her, one hand wrapped around her throat while the other fumbled at the waistband of his jeans. He looked up at Harry and grinned. "Bad timing Harry – you're cramping my style here mate. Can you give us a minute...?"

Harry's jaw was clenched so tight that he struggled to speak. He eyed the large hand around Hermione's throat with trepidation. Bartholomew could kill her with no difficulty at all.

"Bartholomew. What the hell do you think you're doing on my kitchen floor?" Harry deliberately pitched his voice carefully, casually to conceal the red mist of rage in his head, the pounding of the blood in his ears...

Jack smiled, and rose to his feet, his eyes never leaving Harry's. "Easy Harry. There's plenty to go around. I don't mind sharing..." Taking advantage of his distraction, Hermione pulled herself shakily to her feet, clutching his shirt closed with trembling hands.

Bartholomew backhanded her viciously across the face, sending her flying across the kitchen. "Who told you to cover yourself up _bitch?"_

 _Harry could have used magic. But he must have dropped his wand in the garden when he ran inside. And if he cut loose with wandless magic now – Bartholomew was dead - and no matter how tempting it was to turn him into a nasty magical smear on the wall, it might take some explaining. Besides, this was much more satisfying._

Taking advantage of Bartholomew's distraction, Harry's fist connected perfectly with his jaw. There must have been a little magic there after all. Bartholomew practically flew across the room, his head connecting sickeningly with the wall. He landed unconscious, in a heap on the floor.

o~o~o

Hermione was huddled against the table leg, trembling violently, her eyes closed tightly. Harry approached her cautiously, reluctantly to touch her in this state.

"Hermione?"

Harry dropped to his knees beside her, still not touching her. "Hermione love, I need you to open your eyes for me. Hermione, open your eyes darling..."

"Has he gone?" Her voice was little more than a whisper.

"He's on the floor at the moment. Out like a light. I may have hit him harder than I thought."

"Is he still breathing?"

"Yes"

"Then you didn't hit him hard enough" her voice shook as she trembled on the brink of hysteria.

"Hermione, I really want to get you out of here. Can I pick you up?"

Hermione nodded, wiping her face with the back of her hand, wincing when it brushed against the blossoming bruise on her cheekbone. "What about your ribs?"

"They're fine – the bruising is still uncomfortable, but I'll live. Put your arms around my neck."

Slipping a hand under her knees he lifted her off the floor, aware of her undressed state, trying to ensure that his hands stayed away from any even remotely controversial areas . She wrapped her arms around him, burying her face in his neck, clinging like a limpet; shaking convulsively. Stepping carefully over her attacker's crumpled body, he took her through to the sitting room, wrapping her carefully in a blanket.

Stay here. I need to get you warm, you're in shock. I'll light the fire, then I'll call the police."

"No – Harry. I'll..."

Harry put a match to candles and to the fire already laid in the fireplace. _This was not_ _how he had planned this evening at all. Another reason to throw that bastard over the cliff_ he thought bitterly. Once the fire was blazing merrily and the room was starting to warm up a little, he returned to the sofa.

"Hermione, we have to report this. You'll never be able to feel safe here again here if you don't." He brushed her long hair away from her face and neck, his face darkening when he saw the hand prints, livid on her throat, and the bruise across her eye and cheekbone. "I'll get you some ice for that. Once the police take this bastard into custody, otherwise I really will throw him over the cliff."

Hermione gave a muffled snort, half laugh, half sob. "Alright Harry, call the Police. I suppose you're right – it's just..."

"Yes"

"Please don't leave me..."

"I promise... except..."

"What?"

"I'm going to have to go as far as the kitchen. Firstly because I want to keep an eye on the scum currently contaminating my kitchen floor, secondly because you _really_ look as though you need a cup of tea, and thirdly because for some reason you cannot get a mobile signal in this room."

Hermione nodded weakly. "OK, but Harry – please keep the door open. I need to hear you in there."

Harry smiled and risked a kiss to the top of her head. "Besides, you've got another guardian watching over you." He nodded to the back of the room where Dot was lurking anxiously.

Hermione looked up and smiled. "Thank you Dot. For fetching Harry, and for your advice. Without you – I..." she shook her head, wincing. "What I really want is to shower for about twenty years, but I suppose that will upset the Police..."

Harry stood up. "I'll go and make that call and that tea." Walking back into the kitchen, he stopped rooted to the spot in horror.

"FUCK – NO"

"What is it Harry?"

The back door stood empty. The kitchen was empty.

"He's gone..."

o~o~o

Every door and window of Dot's cottage was securely locked and bolted, and all curtains drawn. The Police had said that they would get to them within the hour, but when Harry called again an hour and a half later, he was told that something had come up, which had delayed the officer and could they please be patient.

Eventually, Harry – after another call – went to open the front door to wave in a young male officer, and an older woman with dark hair, and a kind, sensible face. As he looked down the hill into the village, he realised that there was a mass of blue flashing lights around the harbour.

"What the hell's going on...?"

o~o~o

Saturday night at the Golden Lion was always busy, but that Saturday seemed to be more so than usual thought Sarah Smith. She'd been working for Jack Bartholomew for two years now, but right now she was so angry with him that she would have barred him from his own pub if that had been allowed. He'd been in a filthy mood all week, finally going on a spectacular bender, that afternoon, forcing him to take the evening off and dropping her right in the shit.

Fortunately she had realised that he would not be in by the late afternoon giving her time to bring in some emergency staff. But it was still a nightmare of grumpy complaining customers and sore feet... so when Jack lurched into the pub just after 9 pm, still visibly drunk, with a huge bruise blossoming across his jaw she was less than pleased to see him. Such was the look on his face that the entire pub fell silent...

"Jack – are you alright mate?" Paul Trevithick had been a friend of Jack's for years, but all he got for his concern was a snarl and a mouthful of abuse.

"Geddout of my way damn you..." Jack shrugged off Paul's restraining arm. "Leave me alone. It's all over – I've ruined everything..." to Paul and Sarah's horror, the tears in his eyes were suddenly clear to see.

"...I've ruined everything." Turning on his heels, he flung himself through the parting crowds, up the stairs to his flat.

Paul Trevithick put his drink down and made to follow, but Sarah stopped him. "Leave him Paul. Whatever's got his knickers in a knot, he'll be the better for sleeping it off. And since Boss Man is out of commission, would you mind popping down to the cellar for me and changing the "Tribute", it's out at the moment and if I don't get it back on I'll have a riot on my hands...

o~o~o

Around half an hour later Melanie Pannter slid away from the clutches of her boyfriend and headed upstairs to the Ladies. As she ascended she was momentarily distracted by the strange way that the light seemed to flicker over the staircase. On her way back down, the effect was still there, and curiously, she looked up the stairwell to see what could be causing it.

At the very top of the staircase, something was moving - periodically obscuring the light. Too vain to wear her glasses and a little the worse for wear it took a moment to comprehend what she was seeing...

Down in the bar, Sarah Smith dropped the pint that she was pulling when Melanie started to scream.


	7. Chapter 7

_Thanks for sticking with this and for all your support and comments. Slightly shorter chapter this time, but this seemed like the right point to break._

 _Possible trigger warning for this chapter, remember, this story is fiction, but if anything like this has happened to you, please make sure you talk to someone..._

 _Love Merrick x_

* * *

The police were very thorough. Once her injuries, and Harry's bruised knuckles had been photographed, Hermione sat on the sofa, mug of tea in hand, wrapped in Harry's dressing gown, which drowned her, but felt warm and safe, while they gave their statement to the police sergeant. The younger PC had remained in the kitchen photographing the disordered furniture and the smear of blood across the kitchen wall. He was probably also photographing the remains of her underwear Hermione thought suddenly, but then it was only evidence to him. Somehow that didn't feel like much of a consolation at that point.

"...And you hit him Mr Potter"

"That's right"

The female police officer – Sergeant Jean Terry, Harry recalled – frowned suspiciously. "Mr Potter, your statement, and the blood smear on the kitchen wall indicates that you must have knocked Jack Bartholomew clear across the kitchen and into the wall. Now I understand that you come from a security background and presumably have some training, but Mr Bartholomew is a big man. How is that possible?"

Harry's eyes, which had been watching Hermione, curled up beside him, looked up at her, and Terry was shocked at the cold rage in his eyes. "I was in the garden when I heard my girlfriend scream. I ran into the kitchen and found her pinned practically naked to the kitchen floor, Jack Bartholomew was trying to choke the life out of her with one hand and unzipping his trousers with the other – I didn't need to ask where this was going.. When she did manage to get away from him he backhanded her clear across the kitchen" He paused, trying to get himself back together. "I was very, very angry."

"... Bartholomew was drunk" Hermione interrupted. "He was very drunk. He may have lost his balance"

Sergeant Terry sighed. "Yes Ms Granger. We know how drunk he was."

Harry looked at her steadily. "There's more to this isn't there? What's going on Sergeant Terry? What's happening in the village?"

The older woman put down her tea, moving to crouch in front of Hermione...

"Ms Granger – Hermione – I want to make it absolutely clear – this is not your fault." She took as deep breath. "We were called to The Golden Lion this evening. The call came in about half an hour or so after your first call Mr Potter. I have to tell you that Jack Bartholomew is dead. He went back to his flat above the pub and hung himself in the stairwell. By the time they found him it was far too late to do anything." Terry paused for a moment, waiting as Harry drew Hermione against him, her face in his shoulder, waiting for her to compose herself.

"Hermione. I'm sorry to have to ask you this question, but had Bartholomew ever – shown any interest in you before?"

From Harry's shoulder, Hermione drew a deep, ragged breath...

"Yes."

"Can you tell me – take your time"

Hermione sat up, pushing her tangle of dark hair off her face and took a steadying sip of tea. Harry reached into his jeans pocket and smiled. "I thought so. I've been finding these damn things all around the house recently. He opened his hand to reveal a hair band. Smiling a little wanly, Hermione took a moment to sort herself out before squaring her shoulders and facing the sergeant once more.

"I've known Jack Bartholomew my whole life. I would never have called him a friend, but this is a small village you know…? As I got older he seemed to be – attentive, around a lot more I suppose. He singled me out. I was flattered really, he was two years older than me, and a lot of my friends were mad about him, but, there was something about him I didn't trust. I think I must have known even then what it was he wanted. Eventually I relented and went on one date with him when I was fifteen and he would've been nearly eighteen by then. I remember that he borrowed his Dad's car for the afternoon. We went to the cinema in Bodmin." She shuddered. "It was a disaster, he acted as though we were engaged or something, and on the way home he... he got completely out of hand. He pulled into the lay by at the top of the village. At first he just kissed me, which was ok, but then he started pulling at my clothes…. I was only fifteen. I tried to push him off and he got angry - I slapped him and jumped out of the car - then ran home across the fields. I was soaked by the time I got home, and covered in mud. He didn't leave me alone for ages, always watching me, trying to catch me by myself, phoning the house at all hours of the day and night. In the end my Mum threatened to call the police." Hermione shook her head angrily. "My Mum was dying of a brain tumour, and had to deal with that bastard and his raging hormones and over inflated ego. He just refused to believe that I truly wasn't interested. His Dad got involved eventually, and there was a terrible row." She took another sip of her tea before continuing. "Everything seemed to settle down for a while, but then Mum died when I was eighteen. For a while I was lost... adrift. He was there for me. Not romantically – I thought he was a friend. I thought we were over all that. But we weren't..."

"Go on Ms Granger"

Hermione's voice was little more than a whisper. "I went to the pub one night and got rather drunk. Very drunk in fact." She buried her head in Harry's shoulder again. "This is awful..."

"Take your time Hermione"

Harry looked up, still angry... "Is this really necessary. She was almost... hasn't she been through enough?"

"I'm sorry. I know this is hard, but it's really important that we get the full picture... please - carry on Hermione"

"...I was really drunk. Jack offered to take me home. I went up to bed, he promised to lock the door. I assumed that he would lock it on the way out. Unfortunately he didn't. I must have passed out, and when I came round a while later he was – he..."

"Hermione, let me be clear on one thing. The fact that you were too drunk to consent doesn't give him an excuse – doesn't let him off the hook"

Hermione took a deep breath. "He didn't – he tried but he..." her face was utterly mortified. "He had had a few drinks himself, and he must have been... worked up.

… very worked up…"

"Ah"

"He was furious – and humiliated. He blamed me..."

"Did he leave?"

She nodded. "Since then, he's been – weird... creepy. I tried to put it behind me, made certain I was never alone with him, but he just made my skin crawl. He worked in London for years, and I hoped that if – when he came back he would be over it... but his eyes. He would watch me, follow me... When I had security cameras put in in the shop, and in the entrance to the flat I told everyone it was because of burglars, shoplifters, but it wasn't. It was because of him. It made me feel a little safer." She looked up at Harry. "When you suggested going elsewhere the other night I nearly said yes. But part of me hoped that if he saw us together he might finally get the hint - that it was you I was interested in, not him."

"Hermione. To be honest I don't think there was much you could've done to convince him at this stage There's something that you need to see..." Sergeant Terry fished a tablet out of her bag, and opened some pictures. "We found these in Bartholomew's flat at the pub. Were you aware of any of these being taken?"

Hermione took the tablet, flicking through the pictures, her face going from flushed with embarrassment to chalk white in a matter of moments. "Oh my God" her voice was little more than a whisper... "Oh my God".

Pictures. Hundreds of them. From odd snaps of her as a girl, all the way to her walking up to Harry's cottage a few days ago. – hundreds and hundreds of photographs "I had no idea."

The Sergeant's face was grim

"That's enough" Harry took the tablet from Hermione's shaking hands and passed it firmly back to the Sergeant. "She's been through enough now. Do you have everything that you need?"

The young PC appeared to have finished take pictures and samples from the kitchen, and was hovering nervously in the doorway, blissfully oblivious of the fact that a certain – rather transparent - elderly woman was trying to peer at his notebook over his shoulder.

Terry clearly agreed, gathering her equipment and her PC, she rose to leave. "Hermione, our tech guys will take a look at Bartholomew's laptop tomorrow morning. I have to warn you that there may be more to find yet." Her hand gripped Hermione's shoulder momentarily. "The worst is over, but this isn't just going to go away." She nodded up at Harry, now standing, fiercely protective, at her side. "It looks like you have some great support here, but if you need to talk to someone, if you think of anything that might help, call. There are people that can help, that I can put you in touch with. My Detective Inspector is still down at the Lion taking care of the other end of things, but we'll put our heads together on this, and I should be able to update you – for your own personal satisfaction really, as I don't think we'll be looking for anyone else in the case… unless of course there are other victims."

Hermione's face was chalk white. Clearly she hadn't thought of that. "You mean there may be others like me?"

"We can't rule it out I'm afraid. It may be no consolation now but your having the guts to report this may help to bring closure to other women like you." Sergeant Terry held her hand out. "Thank you Hermione, we'll be in touch."

Harry let them both out, locking the door carefully. Bartholomew may have gone but this was far from over, and anything that could make Hermione feel safer was fine by him. Once the last bolt was shot, and magical wards put in place for good measure he turned and sighed with relief, leaning back on the heavy door.

Hermione was standing in the kitchen doorway, looking at the disordered furniture, her expression unreadable.

Harry rested his hands on her shoulders, rubbing his thumb across the back of her neck, under her hair. Dull fury soured his stomach, and he had to breath deeply, trying to stay calm. "I wish I'd killed him myself… If I'd known what he did to you.. How long…."

"I know". The distinct catch in her voice was like a punch in his stomach. Gently he turned her around, drawing her close.

For a moment, the slim body in his arms was tense, then her hands were gripping his sweater, burying her face in his shoulder, her shoulders shaking. For a long time, Harry held her, feeling the damp spread across his sweater, running soothing hands down her back, murmuring soothing nonsense into her hair, until finally she was utterly spent.

Trying not to think of the way they had done the same thing earlier. Harry scooped her up in his arms, and carried her up the stairs. Limp and exhausted, she rested her head against his shoulder.

"Stay with me..."

"I promise"

 _ooo0ooo_

It was well after midnight when DI John Benedict arrived back at Bodmin police station to find Jean Terry, and the young PC, Nigel Timms poring over computer screens, mugs of coffee in hand.

"Any coffee left for me?"

Timms scuttled out of his seat to pour a mug for the DI, who took it with a grunt of thanks, eyes on the screen.

"What've you got?"

Terry rubbed her eyes wearily. It had been a long day, and she should have been off shift hours ago. "Nothing local, but I called the Metropolitan Police. It appears that our Miss Granger - while the longest, and undoubtedly the worst, may not have been the only one...

* * *

 _Only one chapter to go, and maybe an epilogue... M x_


	8. Chapter 8

_Wow. Here we are at the end of the story... Apologies for keeping you all waiting. Firstly, I got a rush of inspiration for a three part story in the "Tales of the Third Brother" series, which wouldn't be denied, and secondly, I couldn't get this right. I think I re-wrote this half a dozen times; at one point there was so much case-work in it that it was beginning to read like a police procedural, but in the end I think I like this version better. I hope you agree. After the trauma of the last few chapters, we're back to lighter and fluffier for the final chapter._

 _I've had some lovely comments about this story - Harry / Hermione is a really popular pairing I know, and although my next story will probably be another crossover I promise to come back and write another one soon._

 _Merrick x_

* * *

"Honey – I'm home"

Harry closed and locked the front door on the cold wet winter night with a sigh of relief. Pausing to hang up his coat, he stooped to say hello to Morrighan, now a little grey around the whiskers, who was weaving ecstatically around his ankles, purring loudly.

"Hello old girl, what've you done with Hermione?"

"In here Harry"

Harry opened the kitchen door, and stopped, confused. Morrighan took one look at her mistress and retreated to the peace of her favourite windowsill upstairs. Harry wasn't sure that he blamed her.

"Where are you, you little bugger? I know you're there somewhere..." Hermione - currently five months pregnant - was standing on the far side of the kitchen table, wand in hand, staring at the corner of the room intently.

It had been five years, almost to the day, since the appalling events that led to the suicide of Jack Bartholomew, and although Hermione had appeared to initially cope well with what had happened to her, it had taken her eighteen months or so to really get over it. They had been difficult and emotionally challenging months in which she had suffered terrible nightmares, had flashbacks and panic attacks. It had taken almost a year before she was really comfortable being left in the cottage alone.

Finding out that Bartholomew had also been reported for harassing other women - two in London, one just outside Bodmin - but had never been prosecuted because the women had ultimately been too frightened of him to press charges, had initially added to her guilt and confusion. But Harry and Hermione had remained committed to each other, and to their relationship, and when, eventually, two years ago, they had married in a small ceremony in the village one of the women had come to the wedding. She had told Hermione that her recovery, being able to move on and have a new life had given her the courage to seek counselling herself. Hermione had wept tears of happiness when she read the letter.

These days, Harry was helping Hermione to run The Raven's Nest, as well as owning The Golden Lion. Buying the place immediately after the events of five years ago had been an impulsive gesture on Harry's part, but since then the village pub had undergone some refurbishment and reorganisation, to include the removal of the old staircase, where Jack Bartholomew had taken his own life. Concerned about the unpleasant atmosphere lurking about the place Harry and Hermione had held a Wiccan cleansing before the arrival of the new manager, and the reopening. Since then the atmosphere had been much better, and the pub was doing very well.

Circling the kitchen gingerly, Harry peered into his wife's face, carefully avoiding her wand, wondering whether pregnancy hormones had caused a recurrence of her previous flashbacks.

"Hermione. Are you alright?" He peered into the corner of the kitchen, but couldn't see anything that might be causing this odd behaviour. "Can you see something there?"

Hermione, wand still poised, leaned around him to look back into the same corner. "Hermione...?"

"Gotcha" Hermione shrieked, shooting a bolt of magic into the offending corner, shattering one of the floor tiles.

"Hermione. Enough!" Harry gingerly took her wand from her hand. "I'll hang on to this for the time being. What on earth..." He turned back to the corner, only to see the cause of his wife's behaviour.

"Seriously Hermione? A mouse? I know you don't like them – but – a _mouse._ Is that really a reason to blow up the kitchen?"

Hermione looked at the broken tile guiltily. "I'm sorry Harry. It just caught me by surprise – you know that I hate them." Her expression changed as her eyes widened in surprise. " _Dot?"_

Dot's ghost had never left the cottage, although her appearances had become less and less frequent as their lives had settled into a peaceful routine. Now she was standing over the broken tile, looking as excited as a centuries old spirit could manage.

Hermione knelt over the damage, gingerly removing the broken pieces. "Harry, there's a space under here..." With the fragments gone they carefully lifted the large tile to reveal a parcel, tightly wrapped in layers of heavily waxed cloth. Dot crouched beside them, pale translucent fingers chilling Hermione's as she bent to touch the package, a broad smile on her face.

Hermione looked up at her "Dot – are these yours?" Very cautiously, for fear of damaging the contents, she lifted the surprisingly heavy parcel out, carrying it to the kitchen table.

The waxed wrapping revealed a number of books, three of which were heavy, fat little volumes, filled with old fashioned, tightly packed handwriting. Enchanted, Hermione pored over them for several minutes, before looking back up, eyes shining. "Harry, these are Dot's journals. They're fascinating – if a little difficult to read. There must be years and year's worth of them here." She turned the pages gently, utterly absorbed, until a gentle prompt from Harry reminded her that there was more to see.

The final book was much larger, thicker and bound in what must once have been red leather. In its day, it probably cost Dot a great deal of money to buy. Hermione let out a little cry of excitement as she opened it.

"Oh my. What a treasure."

"What is it Hermione?"

"Harry, this is Dot's Book of Shadows. A record of her spells, potions and charms. This is amazing. She must have hidden them in her last minutes" Her voice faltered, thinking of Dot's last terrified act before the mob of those she had believed to be her friends arrived to drag her to her fate. She looked back up at Dot, who was hovering companionably at her side, a proud smile on her face. "Dot, do you mind us looking at these, or..." she hesitated, dreading the wrong answer. "...or would you rather we put them back where we found them?"

Dot couldn't physically move the books, but the way that she tried to push them towards Hermione spoke volumes. Hermione's eyes misted over. "Thank you Dot. I promise you won't regret this. If you don't mind I'd like to do some work them, maybe share some of your wisdom with other witches and wizards."

The look of happy pride on Dot's ghostly face as she faded from sight was a picture...

 _ooo0ooo_

 _Since the villagers had turned on her, Dot's spirit had remained forever tied to her former home. She had always preferred her own company. Why else would she have chosen to live out of the village, high on the cliff._ _It was easy to frighten off the odd vagrant, and courting couples, and anything that she managed to do only succeeded in adding to the cottage's reputation – discouraging potential residents._

 _Then the girl came..._

" _She was only a slip of a girl" said Dot to herself. "A bit different, a bit of a loner." A bit like she'd been at the same age. Loved learning and books too... sometimes she would read snippets aloud, and Dot would listen, fascinated._

 _She would have loved more than anything to share her treasures with this lass, but she had no way to show her without frightening her._

 _The lass was a true witch too. Not a practitioner, like Dot had been, dabbling with herbs and potions, making tiny sacrifices to summon spirits. As she got older she became more confident, attempting different spells, when she was certain she could do so in private. In the summer she had brought books up, curled up under the Hanging Tree, innocently unaware of what had taken place there so many years ago. She had no fear of the place, or of the spirit that lingered there watchfully._

 _Dot had always been careful to watch from a distance. If the lass was truly a witch, she would be able to see her, and might be frightened off. Dot understood only too well what it was to be different, not to fit in in the tight knit community of Porth Bran – if she found some peace up on the cliff, then Dot was glad of her company._

 _As the lass grew older, she still came to the cottage, but she was quieter, sadder. Sometimes she brought an older woman with her - her mother Dot presumed. Even then Dot could see the woman's fate tied around her neck. There was no escape for her._

 _Eventually the lass stopped coming, and Dot was alone once again..._

 _Just passing walkers, an odd fox, the mocking seagulls, and her own thoughts. Dot, without a human lifespan to measure against, lost all track of time. She had been contemplating the ash tree from the back bedroom window when the front door had opened and two men had walked in._

 _There was something, thought Dot, very – compelling – about the tall, dark haired, green eyed man, an aura that seemed – familiar somehow. She followed him tentatively around the cottage, trying to work him out, but when the two men left she had been none the wiser._

 _What followed his visit was probably the most traumatic event for poor Dot since the fateful evening when the villagers – torches in hand, had marched up the hill._

 _The group of men arrived..._

 _Ripping up floors and carving holes in the walls. Changing things out of all recognition_

 _Noisy, disruptive and disrespectful, the group of men had invaded her sanctuary for what felt like forever – perhaps this truly was hell she thought in despair. The only consolation were the odd occasions when the green eyed man came back to visit. Dot was hurt to see that he was happy with what was happening to her home._

 _But eventually, the group of hated men left, and the green eyed man came back._

 _And this time he stayed._

 _And to Dot's delight, he could hear her, and eventually see her. Communication was difficult, because speaking to him initially took so much energy, but for the first time in a long time Dot was truly happy. Harry was quiet and pleasant, but he was also interesting to have around, fascinating her with his casual use of magic, and the magical inventions that he brought with him._

 _The one he called Jack though, was not someone that Dot was so happy about. She had seen him a few times hanging around the lass that had come to the cottage before. She knew the type. Smooth and charming enough on the outside, but a nasty bully beneath. The type that would woo a lass with flowers and sweet words, but wouldn't take no for an answer, would use that strong powerful body to obtain exactly what he wanted by force if sweet words failed him._

 _He seemed to be nice enough to her green eyed friend – Harry she had learned – a nice honest name, but that didn't mean that Dot had to trust him..._

 _It took a few moments for Dot to recognise the woman that arrived at the cottage later. The young lass had become a woman, and it seemed that Dot was not the only one with a fondness for Harry and his pretty green eyes._

 _Now, in spite of all the troubles that had marked the start of their relationship, Harry and Hermione were married, and would soon be parents. Dot's home would be full of love and laughter and magic, and now that she had finally managed to share her treasures with them, Dot's purpose was fulfilled._

 _Now the Hanging Tree had a seat under it for sunny evenings, and above it, bright and shining in the setting sun, was a handsome brass plaque._

In Loving Memory of Dorothea Gerrans

Teacher and Wise Woman of Porth Bran 1749 – 1793.

 _Those that we love never truly leave us._

 **The End...**


End file.
